<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>it’s my fucking thing by orphan_account</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24425908">it’s my fucking thing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Homestuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abusive Parents, Anger, Angst, Cutting, Gen, Graphic, Hurt/Comfort, OP is sad, Personal Experience, Sadstuck, Scars, Self Harm, not stridercest, vent fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:21:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,143</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24425908</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>why’s he have to care? it’s not hurting him if i waste a few tissues every few nights. it’s my fucking thing, it doesn’t hurt him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Your name is Dave Strider, and you want to set the world on fire. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You’re not exactly sure why you feel like this, but it’s certainly been getting a lot more passionate lately. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You really, <em>really</em> fucking hate yourself. And that sucks, because a lot of people find you cool. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">These people probably being your best friend, John Egbert, but he didn’t count because he was a huge dork so you only brought his coolness up from 1 to 2. Of course, he was your huge dork, so his coolness didn’t matter.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But, that also sucks, because you’re not cool. You’re just stoic and trying to be friendly and for some reason that is cool now. So you’re cool. And depressed. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You were a living Lana Del Ray song. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A lot of the time, as cool kids do, you get home from school to an empty house; but unlike cool kids, you skip the kitchen. You didn’t have anything against eating, fuck no, your Bro was just bad at keeping teens fed. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Instead, you dick about in your room, talking to your friends on the pesterchum or free-styling to loop samples and fishing for something good, maybe you’ll even crack out some sicknasty SBHJ content. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It all goes the same in the end. 6PM rolls around and the jingle of the keys and the creak of the front door and you feel like shit again. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You hated when your Bro came home. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s not that you hate your <em>Bro</em>, you just hate whenever he’s home. And everytime you’re forced into a strife for whatever fucking reason. And how he stoically, silently mocks you for doing anything that makes you happy. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Not that you’re really allowed to show happiness, stoicism is the unspoken rule of the apartment. He was pokerfaced since birth so you grew up a follower. Emotion is just a song by Destiny’s Child. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When he’s home it’s silence, you feel like shit when your door creaks open when you’re going for a piss.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You jam a finger in the rubber of the refrigerator door so he can’t hear you grabbing things to make lunch. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You distort your feet so you walk quietly, you’re so slow and careful to not disturb the atmosphere. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You can barely recall what the living room looks like some days because of how little time you spend there, wanting to isolate yourself rather than be in the same room as him. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When he’s home you have to be stifled. You hate his presence, looming and ever-present, he’s always around and you will never be okay with him being around. You like your freedom, what can you say?</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When he’s not home, you’re-</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hm.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s no words. Manic?</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Last week you spent almost a third of your savings to buy enough to make pancakes, you walked 35 minutes there-and-back to buy the ingredients and ended up making enough to feed you plenty for the week. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You ended up eating a days filling and immediately purging it all into the toilet, and leaving a note out offering the rest to Bro. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You then spent the next 4 hours crying and cutting deeper than usual because your stomach cramps were so bad you almost threw up again- but you <em>had</em> already gone through the effort to make a note; you didn’t <em>deserve</em> the food, greedy fuck. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bro ended up eating half of the stack and left the rest for you, and you let them sit and go bad ‘til you scraped the plate clean half a week later with throbbing wrists. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You spent so much time crying it didn’t even mean you were sad anymore. It became something of a craving, a burst of emotion that you couldn’t produce naturally. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You cried because you were angry. You cried because you were sad. You cried anytime something made you laugh and you cried when you felt so empty you were sure you had become hollow. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You never cried when you cut though. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Cutting <em>didn’t</em> hurt. It stung afterwards and fucking sucked when a particularly weighted smuppet dropped itself onto your sore thighs, but cutting didn’t hurt. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">From the self harm fics you read online before you were brave enough to bring steel to skin, you’d expected a “blossoming pain throughout your hand” or “an electric burn across your calf” but it really was just a quick tug, a paper cut slice and sort of a lasting sting. Nothing that wasn’t handleable. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The first time you cut deep the self-harming echeladder levelled up from “cat scratcher” to “curling iron burn.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You didn’t even mean to do it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You were scraping deep but not getting more than that; scrapes. You frustratedly pushed your shades up — the overstimulation of your vision being muted — and noticed you weren’t cutting on the blade side. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s safe to say that you were already worked up so naturally youwere humiliated and <em>hated yourself</em> even harder for a second, so you just flipped it and went back to scraping deep — except it sliced right through and you watched as a gash a couple millimetres deep filled with blood before your eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You were left breathless, half wanting to puke because you’d never cut that deep and half wanting to do it again because it really didn’t hurt that much. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You spent the rest of the night tending to it, like it was a celebrity. You squished the blood out and watched it swell back up, dabbed it with your tissues and repeated. Over, and over,</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And over.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When it healed, it was kinda fat and a bright red, and you did see the resemblance to a burn. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You decided you liked these scars more. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You never did get back to cutting that deep again, but dotted all around that were thick pink worms, an ‘<em>almost</em>’ of what they aspired to be; what they <em>could</em> be if you weren’t such a fucking pussy. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When you tried to cut that deep again, you’d throw your head back and gasp like some twink in a porno. No matter if you bit into sock or clenched your jaw, it always irked you that little bit too much not to react. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You think, that you’ve started doing this to feel happy. Maybe. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You certainly felt better about yourself when you cut deep. When you hopped up on the dirty kitchen counter to watch the sun, not even caring that Bro was asleep on the futon a few metres away. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It felt right, you knew your home-life was abusive. Kids needed food and water and care, not just supervision every second week-night. Cutting yourself made you feel like you were filling the role of an actor in a movie about teenage disillusionment; and it looked pretty cool. Battle scars. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It became somewhat of a game, you’d spend all of your anger against the world to walk into the kitchenette at the crack of dawn in boxers and a T-shirt, thighs and wrists and calves and <em>everything</em> on display. and you’d fill a glass of water, and walk back to your room. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And he didn’t stop you. The first time, the second time, the third or the fourth or the fifth and by the sixth you’d stop labelling them because hey! At least your sleep schedule was getting better. You slept early after half-bullshitting your homework so you could walk stress free and get that cup of water. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It worked soundly for a few weeks, your confidence was growing and all your guardian had to do was sleep. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Until he did wake up, cliche as it is, you were stupid and probably turned the tap on too high too fast. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You barely even remember what happened, how it began. You were filling up your cup and his voice probably said your name or something, and every cut on your body and all of your bone marrow and behind your eyes filled with hot, searing heat and you flinched so hard you were dizzy and you were so, so, fucking <em>mad</em>. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You’d spilt the water from the cup so you just dropped it into the sink and wrenched the tap off. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There was no way he hadn’t seen, from where he was twisted around and staring in your direction, readjusting his shades, the backs of your calves were on full display and when you turned it was nothing but thigh, baby. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You almost ran into your room, you felt sick with how mad you were. This was your fucking secret. It was your fucking thing. It was the only thing you looked forward to, being able to be yourself and do your own shit with no ‘scuse me’s and no ‘sorry bro’s. He had to ruin it like he ruined everything and he had to take it away and he probably thought you were doing it for attention when you weren’t because it was <em>your fucking thing</em>. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Welcome to the present, reader.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You’d kicked your shitty door shut and when it banged it did nothing but help jostle up your anger more.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You’d thrown yourself on your bed and you were so fucking mad you wanted to eat your pillow. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But you didn’t. You just started crying, all angry panting and unnoticeable tears. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You cried and the anger melted away and you muffled your face into your flat pillow until you couldn’t breathe and then you cried some more, a little sadder. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The heat seeped away from inside your bones, your anger dissipating probably into the air, and it must attract douchebags because your door creaked open. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You heaved and kicked your legs to one side of the bed, which you’d meant to show “I’m trying to get away from you. Leave me alone.” but which must’ve been took as “here have some space on the bed” because it sank around where Bro sat down. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You hated this so much. You could almost feel the loving parent guise worming it’s way into the cracks of his face, he wasn’t a loving parent. He was your absent ironic Bro who pushed you so hard you got rug burn from the asphalt on the roof and only fed you proper meals on nations holidays. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You chewed up all your hatred into a little ball and spat out two words-</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fuck off.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">-And you clenched your teeth so you wouldn’t bite through your cheek when his fist concussed you. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And you tightened your back. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And you were so, so, <em>fucking afraid</em> when nothing happened. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. not a parent</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>okay, fuck, my lil bro is cutting himself and my only experience with this shit is probably when a crazy ex threatened to kill herself if I dumped her. time to be a good bro.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You laid there, wound up like a wrung-out rag, so close to fraying and snapping as tears leaked out of you like dishwater. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You tried to stop them, because you were sure the little pity bonus they might’ve had on your Bro didn’t work. He didn’t accept pity, he gave you what you deserved. <br/>He piped up;</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know how to deal with this.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He spoke, and you were suddenly more alert about your heavy breathing and the dull pain of held back tears; he wasn’t beating you yet and you didn’t know how to navigate this minefield. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Usually, when you did something he didn’t like, he’d take the laziest chance to swat you upside the head with the bone of his palm. If you intentionally pissed him off, he’d hit you hard enough that you’d lose your balance. You didn’t retaliate unless you were sure you didn’t have school in the morning. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s never just spoken to you. He’s never done this before and you felt worse. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You let the silence breed for a few beats until he prodded further. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dave.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just let me keep doing it. Go back to sleeping.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Cutting yourself? Or walking around like a fucking zebra crossing?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Breathing hard, you sat up. It took so much effort. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You readjusted your shades, wiped your face under the collar of your shirt and swung your legs off the side of the bed next to him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And you sat. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You didn’t like this at all. This wasn’t a loving mother who you have to make sure not to let dirty jokes slip in front of. This wasn’t a stern father who might tell you off for bumming rides off of the punk kids at school. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This was your ironic, porn-site managing, puppet-attracted kid hitting Bro who doesn’t bring vegetables home and comes at you with swords and doesn’t care about you like that. He cares about keeping you alive and making sure that you’re not going to kill yourself and that’s that. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Look, I’m not going to send you to a hospital or some dumb shit-“ he breaks off into a small choke and inhales, “unless that’s, like.. what you need.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You two sit for a while, and he starts asking you questions. Are they clean, do you keep safe, do you need more gauze, do you want to kill yourself, is it his fault.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Is it his fault. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s nothing to do with you. I’d rather if you left me alone and let me keep on with my shit.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s now that he, very hesitantly, takes off his shades, placing them in his lap with an iron grip. You don’t know whether to be grateful that he’s vulnerable or afraid because he’s straining.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s got something to do with me, otherwise you wouldn’t have walked out showing it all off, knowing that I probably could’ve woken up and seen you.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Silence. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You knew people could do shit subconsciously, Rose was always going on about that shit, but you didn’t think. It wasn’t supposed to be about him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This was supposed to be your thing that you were doing for you, that you did because- fuck, you don’t know! You started to like it. Maybe it was about him, who cares. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Let me clean them, at least. You’re bleeding through the padding.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You look down and the slim sheet of cotton padding that was taped to your thigh was, in fact, blooming with specks of orange-red in the cracks in the brown. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He got up first, leaving his shades on your bed, but you didn’t take yours off. He pushed the door open wide enough for you to walk through and walked into the bathroom. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You didn’t know what you were doing. You just sat on the rim of the tub and shrivelled up and died inside. He wasn’t your fucking mom, you didn’t <em>want</em> a cushy parent-son relationship. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re not my mom.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He slid the roll of gauze and the padding out of the first aid kit and turned to the sink.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, I’m your bro and your guardian. And trying to be a damn good one, at that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You don’t think he bit back at you, it was more like he was agreeing with you. You’d both expressed a dislike for those overly-sweet repetitive family movies; it was totally uncool. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was calm listening to him wet the last few sheet of toilet paper, you idly picked at the tape on your thigh. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You weren’t dreading this. He knew and you knew and now your Bro was going to wash your cuts. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Unlike the self harm fics you used to read, he wasn’t cradling you like a baby or ushering you into a therapists office that you’d inevitably blank to.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Thank whatever bullshit deity that internet troll worshipped, because you think you might <em>have</em> to kill yourself if he pulled that. Probably out of irony, because he knew how disgustingly uncool it would be.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He sat on the toilet lid and peeled off the cotton. You didn’t wince as he wiped at the reopened cuts and you certainly didn’t scratch at the other scabs. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was calm and it felt so cliche but you weren’t <em>hating</em> it. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After he finished he wiped you down, patched you up and he sat there and looked at you. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looked away, twitched and spoke.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not going to force you to stop, because that’s fucking stupid and I know you’ll just find a new way to hurt yourself.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That eased your mind a bit. You were tense, because you’d thought he was gonna confiscate all of your sharp things and take your door and supervise you 24/7. Phew, I guess. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But,” he continued, “I’m not just going to let you push this to the back of your head and ignore me. Whenever you cut, I’m cleaning them.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Because I’m not letting you risk sepsis or some bullshit because you hate yourself.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You scowled behind your glasses and Bro bit back the smirk he gets whenever he knows he pissed you off. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Why did this feel so normal. He was being your Bro — <em>your</em> Bro, albeit the gory circumstances. He wasn’t acting like a parent. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fuck, you were tearing up. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah? <em>I’ll</em> clean up your messes and hopefully try and wean <em>you</em> off your slashin’.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You couldn’t help but let the questioning tone seep into your voice, you hadn’t expected this. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“By being a better Bro. I’ll drive you places where you can mack on that Egbert kid and we’ll get takeout on weekends or some shit. I dont know.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looked weird without his shades. You could tell he was tonguing at the scar on his lip, something he did when he was waiting, or nervous. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He was looking at you through your shades like he could see your eyes and that’s probably because he could. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Un-tensing your shoulders and leaning back nonchalantly, you stammered through a “sure, sounds good” and mentally berated yourself.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Bro stared for another moment, before exhaling deeply and</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Smiling. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Genuinely</em> smiling, and resting a heavy hand on your head as he got up. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>
    <span class="s1">What the fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">that made you</span>
  <em>
    <span class="s1"> really fucking happy. </span>
  </em>
  <span class="s1">You felt, damn. It was hard to describe. Bro’s. You were brothers. Bro’s. Whatever.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sure, as he started to walk out he pushed your head a bit so you’d fall into the bathtub, but all the more you did not give a shit. Actually, that probably made it better.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He walked out and you shamelessly cried while crumpled up in the bathtub, your legs hanging out and you did feel pretty cool in that moment. Maybe with a nicotine addiction and a 20-pack it would be a bit cooler, but you were okay like this.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">You <em>were</em> okay like this.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When you’d finished up being cool and wiping tears off of your glasses, you walked back into your room to put some fucking sweats on. Nasty, walking around half naked. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The sun was up now, and the glass on your deck and turntables was reflecting it right up your wall. You tried not to look at the insides of your pants as you pulled them up, instead focussing on Bro calling out;</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is it too early to order Dominos or, like, is that cool.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Yeah, that was pretty fucking cool.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>mmm is my craving for a good sibling relationship too apparent?? or am I showing you my hatred for parental figures?? you’ll never know xoxo<br/>anyways. yeah. i know some of y’all love cushy angsty sappy love but if i can just get nonchalant stoic ‘uhh ok. I have to b a guardian’ Bro content without having to write it myself that would b sick!! give me parental content without the parents!!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*obligatory “seek help” message*</p><p> anyways only the real OGs know how fucking infuriating it is to have an abusive parent act like they care when they find out 😌💅</p><p>comment if you want a second chapter, I don’t know how people will eat up my dumb vent so. lol</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>